


Your Rescuer for This Evening

by mariana_oconnor



Series: Tony Stark Bingo 2019 [4]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Clint Barton, Bad date, Gen, Meet-Cute, Pre-IronHawk, Rescue Mission, Tony Stark is not Iron Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 21:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20477603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: The restaurant's discrete, the food is expensive and Tony's date is getting later by the minute. When a stranger sits down at his table, things get a lot more interesting.Written for the Tony Stark Bingo square R1: Clint Barton/Hawkeye





	Your Rescuer for This Evening

**Author's Note:**

> A snippet of what could be a much longer IronHawk fic, though I have no idea where it would go. Just had an urge to write Billionaire!Tony and Spy!Clint.
> 
> Written for the Tony Stark Bingo square R1: Clint Barton/Hawkeye

The restaurant is the sort of place where privacy is included in the price - and you don’t ask about the price. You just hand over your black card and they hand it back to you. Numbers would be too crass for a place like this. If you can’t afford it, you can’t get in. It’s that simple.

The light is dim, the patrons are dressed in the sort of clothes that look too simple to be anything other than the higher echelons of the fashion pyramid. The waiters glide across the floor, their heads and hands never bobbing up or down a millimetre, rock steady, perfectly balanced. Food is arranged like art on the plates, a flutter of leaves, like a butterfly perched on a dome of something that might be sweet or savoury.

In short, it is the sort of place that Tony appreciates simply because they do not ask questions, but at the same time he hates it and wishes for a cheeseburger, dripping with sauce, oozing out of a bun that’s squashed into a quarter of its original size and fries that he can dunk in sauce, not caring that his fingers are greasy and stained.

But he smiles at the sommelier as she pours the wine, and reasons that at least the meal will taste phenomenal.

His phone is on the table beside him and he’s clicking through emails in an attempt to distract himself from the passage of time. This is a faux pas, but this is not the sort of place where a faux pas will be questioned. No one bats an eyelid. Everywhere is the murmur of polite conversation. Tony recognises ninety percent of the people in here, but he does not let on. Deals are being made, futures are being ruined, no doubt. This is the sort of restaurant where people divide up the planet for themselves.

A table in the darker recesses of the back corners booms with the laughter of powerful men lubricated with alcohol. Another billion dollars made for someone.

It is not the sort of place Tony would have chosen, but Indries had said she’d always wanted to try the place. Three michelin stars, she’d said. They had oysters to die for. Who was Tony to disagree? Indries is… Tony never understands it while she isn’t there, but when she is, it’s like she takes up everything. Indries is...

Indries is late.

The door opens and Tony looks up, but it isn’t Indries. Instead, a man enters. This should not be notable, probably wouldn’t be if something about him did not strike Tony as the slightest bit  _ off _ . The door jerks open abruptly and the man steps in. He is dressed well, a suit that emphasises his height and broad shoulders but his attitude is not quite the smooth, assured nature that hangs in the air. His hair is blonde, just a touch too messy, as though the style it has been forced into isn’t quite strong enough to keep it under control. His fingers are twitching slightly against his thigh. The man looks around, and says something to the young woman at the door before she nods and allows him past to walk confidently into the room.

Tony appreciates that walk, appreciates the suit as well. It’s a little tight round the biceps and the way he moves is with a curious roll to his steps that speaks of someone who understands the balance of their body as well as a trained acrobat.

This man, Tony thinks, wetting his lips with his drink, would be good in bed. The kind of good that leaves you gasping.

He shouldn’t be thinking that, not while he is waiting for Indries. Not while he is in a relationship.

The man surveys the room as he walks through, and Tony tenses as he notes the way he clocks the bodyguards, lingers on the people in the dark corners. Something about this man is not right.

He walks up and Tony averts his gaze, expecting the stranger to stride straight past, but instead, Tony almost chokes on his drink when the man slides into the seat opposite him.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, although he’s already sitting in it.

“It will be,” Tony responds. Up close the man’s the rugged end of handsome. His face has some nicks and scars that Tony knows instinctually aren’t from shaving, although there’s a slight cut on his jawline that probably is. His eyes are bright, piercing blue, looking right at Tony.

Now he’s sitting, the confidence wanes a bit and the man gives a slightly awkward smile.

“I’ve always wanted to say this,” he says. “But it’s gonna sound corny.”

‘Corny’ Tony mouths, it’s not the sort of word you hear in a place like this, and the man’s accent, too,is different, deeper vowels, looser consonants. Midwest somewhere, way down, but ironed out over the years, from exposure rather than training.

“If you’re here to ask me for money…” Tony starts.

“No, Mr Stark,” the man tells him, a sheepish smile tugging up one side of his lips. “That’s not… oh, I should have just started with the line.”

“I’ve heard a lot of lines in my time,” Tony assures him.

The man extends a hand across the table, palm up and leans in slightly. No one is watching them, Tony knows.

“Tony Stark,” the man says, and for some reason Tony’s breath catches in his throat at the words. “Come with me if you want to live.”

Tony stares. Blinks and stares again. Laughter is pushing up inside him, and he knows he’s smiling.

“You can’t be-” 

The movement is abrupt. One moment the guy’s on the other side of the table, the next he’s whirling out of his seat, reaching out for Tony and dragging him down.

The sound of shattering glass is almost simultaneous. Screams and shouting follow.

“Fuck… I thought I had longer than that!” the guy says. There’s a gun in his hand, Tony notices, as he is unceremoniously shoved under the table. He looks back up to where he’d been sitting and there’s a hole in the upholstery, bullet shaped.

“You’re really here to save my life?” Tony asks.

“I work for SHIELD. Your girlfriend pinged some of our radars,” the man says. “We need to get out of here.”

“Indries?” Tony asks, but there is a part of him that is not surprised. Not in the least. Of course Indries was setting him up. He wonders what she was getting out of it.

“This place is hush-hush, they’ve got a back entrance, right?” the secret agent asks, raising his eyebrows. Another bullet hits the ground next to their table and Tony can hear people entering the restaurant. The crunch of feet on broken glass, the noise of half a dozen bodyguards calling out in alarm.

“Everyone’s going to be using it,” Tony points out. No one in this place wants to be caught here, not with guns being fired and not with the police showing up. That would ruin the ambience… and the discretion.

“Right,” the man agrees. “How are you at climbing?” he asks, looking Tony up and down as best he can in the confined space.

“I can climb,” Tony says, shucking out of his jacket. This is probably not the time for a Westmancott anyway, and both William and Pepper would be put out if he got bullet holes in it. He strips off his tie too.

“Great. Now… stay here.” the guy grins, a little feral and a lot charming, which is probably not an appropriate thought for the situation, but Tony’s never really worried about what is appropriate. Also, he’s not sure that there is an appropriate response to being saved from an assassination attempt by a handsome man in--

Oh… wow.

There are three of them coming, dressed in black, looking like rejects from the latest Mission: Impossible film, and the man who saved Tony’s life - he should really get a name at some point - just… destroys them. A sweep of a leg, an arm block. He grabs the gun hand of one and pushes it up right as the guy fires, moving his head out of the way.

But Tony’s not just going to sit here and let it happen. There’s cutlery on the table. The guy who’d been swept to the floor is rolling around, looking Tony’ right in the face and grinning with far too many teeth.

He’s wearing Stark body armour, but not the most recent model, and even the best body armour in the world only protects the parts it covers. 

He spins the fork round and stabs the guy in the hand, forcing him to drop the gun, so Tony takes it; it’s more efficient than a fork.

It’s a lot bloodier than he expected.

Mystery saviour turns to take out the final guy and sees him lying there, blood throbbing from his hand, the fork still stuck in the wound. He gives Tony a look of shock and… that might be approval, then raises his foot to bring it crashing down on the guy’s head. There’s a sickening crunch and the third guy slumps to the ground.

“Right… climbing time,” his new bodyguard says, reaching out a hand to help Tony up. “We really don’t want to be here when the police come and I’m pretty sure these guys brought back up.”

As if in response to his words, a bright red dot appears on the guy’s chest and Tony swears, yanking him to the side, behind a thin wall that exists to provide privacy to people sitting in the booths. The bullet hits the far wall.

“Who are you?” Tony asks.

“Agent Clint Barton, SHIELD. I’m here to rescue you?” he adds the last bit with a bit of a shrug.

“Nice to meet you, Clint Barton,” Tony says. “Now, how are we getting out of here?”


End file.
